


Before the Fire

by Adlanth



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cousin Incest, M/M, References to Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 03:11:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adlanth/pseuds/Adlanth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingon comes with the spring. </p><p>----</p><p>Just an old one! Written for Slashy Santa 2007 for <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Oshun/pseuds/Oshun">Oshun</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before the Fire

Fingon comes with the spring; he likes to think that ice melts beneath his horse's hooves as he rides over the plains of Beleriand, going East. There is a freshness to the air that makes his skin tingle, makes him breathe deep, and long to ride even faster to Himring. The land seems to flie beneath his horse's hooves, and yet spring is swifter – going ahead of him, telling Maedhros, perhaps, of his coming.

So it does; one morning Maedhros leans out of his window, looking West; not towards the land he left, but towards what he has found there; he breathes in the night-cool air, and watches as the morning mists lift; and then there it is, a speck of silver that catches his eye. It might be anyone, this distant glint of metal; yet he knows better. Soon the glimmer becomes a small company, bearing the blue banners of the House of Fingolfin; soon he bids his steward prepare rooms, stables and food for the newcomers, speaking detachedly despite the joy that courses through his veins, cold and biting like a stream flowing from mountains when snow melts.

Fingon enters the courtyard of Himring to the clatter of hooves on stones; he rides first and foremost. He lifts his eyes, sees Maedhros who stands at the top of a flight of stairs before a great wooden gate, and almost starts for poignant joy. He dismounts, careful not to look at his cousin for too long; they clasp hands and try not to linger.

Later – they eat in the greatest hall of Himring. Fingon sits at Maedhros' right, and sitting with them at the long carved tables are their men, warriors, stewards, healers, loremasters, a loud gathering. Fingon is hungry after his long ride, and eats voraciously; yet still more hungry are his eyes, and he has to remind himself not to stare too long, not to linger over his cousin's chiselled face, over the deep red glow of his hair, over the slender hand that cups a nicely wrought vessel. They do not talk much – say only trivial things. From time to time Maedhros turns to him; for a fleeting moment grey eyes stare into his – quiet, thoughtful, tender.

And later yet, before the great hall's fireplace, while the large wooden tables are being cleaned, they talk quietly, they talk of war, soldiers, fortifications, craftsmen – and yet steal glances, noticing now how the play of the firelight on Fingon's thick black plaits and their gold ties, his full lips; and how it flickers over Maedhros's cheekbones and bright eyes. Once while Maedhros speaks Fingon takes a swift look at the empty hall; then takes his cousin's hand in his, kisses the fine skin at his wrist, noticing how his breath catches for the slightest of moments; and then kisses his fingers, and thumb, and pressing it close to his face breathes softly into his palm until Maedhros withdraws abruptly. When silence falls upon Himring, they go to Maedhros' room. Maedhros softly draws the door shut, and then they embrace, almost clumsy in their haste and desire, hands fisting into hair, kissing quietly.

***

Fingon wakes in a loose tangle of limbs, Maedhros' sleeping head upon his shoulder, one slender arm thrown across his chest. Beyond an arched window the sky just begins to lighten; a few birds are heard. Fingon will have to rise soon, slip into his own room undetected. For now he is content to rest, tangled in sleep's net; he savours the feel of his lover's skin on his, the beating of his heart, the rise and fall of his chest; in the morning he drifts into dreamy thoughts and thinks of beginnings (not ends, not yet; fair Beleriand in the morn knows no death.)

How did it begin, he wonders. When did one kinsman's smile grow brighter than any other? When did he begin to watch his cousin covertly, stealing glances to admire the long straight line of a leg, the cleverness of slender, ink-stained fingers, the brilliance of a fall of auburn hair ? Was it that day? – sneaking into his uncle's library, to find him sitting there, long legs stretched, lean flank glazed by Laurelin's fading light, bent thoughtfully over a book with the almost frightening, and yet desirable, single-mindedness that his part of the family possessed. Wanting to kiss that exposed neck, wanting it so hard for a fleeting moment that his stomach lurched and his heart twisted in his chest, and he wrung his hands behind his back in order not to yield, burning as though plunged into liquid fire. And other times, later, as they walked together, feeling his whole skin and his mouth tingle with longing for he barely knew what; wrestling playfully on the welcoming grass, yearning for more, for what he feared might be wrong – why else dream of secret embraces, whispers, gasps, cries in the dark? In Valinor light pervaded all, Laurelin's gold flooding even the most secret woods, Telperion's light entering every crack like quicksilver, and so he waited in mute desire. Or was there that one time? When they met in Avathar, riding into hills which the Trees' light barely touched, fleeing into shadows; they made their camp in what was almost night, lit a fire, sat side by side besides its flames, talking quietly; and when the flames died down so did their idle chat, and they sat before the embers, suddenly still and silent; and then, perhaps, did Findekano's hand cover Maitmo's; and then, turning towards each other breathlessly, lips touching, the barest caress, a fleeting acknowledgement of desire, so brief and sweet that Findekano thought his heart would break, and then turning away

But now... now Maedhros is waking, his one hand tracing idle patterns over Fingon's chest. Soon he raises himself on one elbow, gazing down at his cousin, smiling a tender, wistful, amused smile at him, gently stroking black locks away from his face. Fingon gazes up, without speech or thought, his heart beating harder at the mere sight of his cousin's smile, even after all the years they have spent together. When Maedhros descends upon him, he feels as though he were plunging into fire again, as it felt on that first day; then his cousin's kiss washes all the memories and doubts of youth away.

***

It is a beautiful spring, sweeter than is usual in Himring. (A sweeter spring? Rather than the first spring to ever touch Himring the cold, Fingon claims.) Warmth and birds come sooner than is their wont; in tree and grass flowers bloom almost extravagantly; after months of snow the swifts spells of rain of spring feel like but sweet tears of laughter.

In the morning they are lords; they speak of war and the leaguer, of trade, food supplies, craftsmanship. They pore over maps and are careful not to let even their fingers brush against each other's for fear of a spark, and fire. But in the afternoon they sneak out the castle like children, all but the simplest weapons cast off, secure in the strength of the leaguer. For a time they are neither warriors nor lords; walking into the woods that surround Himring they dare be playful for a while, tripping the other so that they fall in a tangle on the soft grass, wrestling, stealing kisses, caresses, glimpses of the Blessed Realm in the light that drips from above.

There is a small stream that flows down from the hill and into Gelion; but before it reaches the river it winds its twisted way into the wild. They go to bathe in its waters, choosing to go where for a time it runs deeper than elsewhere, flowing on flat, smooth rocks and clear sand, hidden by the steep banks that rise on each side and the trees that grow on it. There they lie, half-immersed, holding each other tight, relishing the warm feel of the other's skin and the coolness of running water. Fingon runs his hand through Maedhros' damp hair; Maedhros kisses the beating pulse at his neck, a strong shoulder, the line of his jaw. Slowly they move yet closer to each other, legs tangling underwater, lips and tongues meeting and duelling, skin sliding on skin, callused fingers and palms grazing over steely flanks, backs, thighs. Soon they are out of the water, not even standing before they roll down onto a smooth expanse of sun-warmed rock. Urgent whispers, moans rise; Fingon's teeth sink into Maedhros' shoulder as he slides between his lover's legs; for a moment they hold still, staring into each other's eyes, panting. When Fingon enters him Maedhros grips his hips hard and raises his mouth for a kiss, and even as Fingon thrusts slowly then more urgentlythey kiss each other silent.

Later they let the sun dry the sweat off their bodies, lying lazily curled around each other, until proximity and gentle kisses engender renewed desire, and Maedhros now claims dominance, until again they shudder and cry out in pleasure and again collapse in the sun, pressed even closer to each other than before. In the end Maedhros lays himself down in Fingon's embrace, cheek pressed to his smooth, muscular shoulder; every now and again raising his head to stare down sleepily at Fingon's peaceful face and closed eyes, Fingon who even in his sleep holds him close.

As he did, centuries ago, lifting his wasted body. Maedhros does not remember well. Dim memories haunt him always, ever-present and vague, all events dimmed and blurred out by pain, intense pain shooting through his whole body, dull pain that choked him, pain of the body and of the mind, gnawing at him as he hung on the cliff, until past, present and future crashed into each other and he was trapped in a single eternal moment of horror and agony, fresh blood staining rock as he fought madly against the pain, blood bubbling at his lips as he rasped out meaningless words, gasping, eyes rolling in their sockets.

Did he sing in answer, when Fingon's voice rose in song even though it sounded like a moan to him or the jeering taunts of the wind? Was he even able to scream, to wail, so that the sound of his voice floating through the maze of rocks and legends was turned to song? He does not know. His head hung low, his eyes were closed, blood dribbled down his chin and throat. Then he felt wind, strangely not so cold as before but soothing; and soon he felt arms about him, clumsily embracing him as he hung. Then there was a hand on his chin, tilting his head up, a voice that called a name over and over (was it his?) until at last he opened his eyes and stared into a face he felt he must have known but could not recognize. He was lifted slightly, and moaned in surprise as the pain changed.

Did he ask for death? Scratching weakly at Fingon's arms and chest and face, wide eyes rolling around like a wild animal's, struggling so feebly that his blows felt like awkward caresses, struggling in terror not knowing who had come. His feverish eyes brightened a little at the sight of cold, gleaming steel in Fingon's shaking hand, a blade weakly laid at his throat. When Fingon withdrew the blade he let his head fall onto his cousin's shoulder. A moment later he shuddered when Fingon pressed his face hard against his chest so that his whimpers and cries would be silenced, and gripped him tightly; then there was a blade at his wrist, hacking away flesh and bone but it did not hurt so much after all the pain. He cried out weakly into his cousin's chest, shaking. Then he was borne away and knew no more.

Fingon was always there when he woke. He would rise out of sleep and feel his presence, hear his presence; and when he opened his eyes Fingon would be there, a shadowy silhouette, looking at him, his face dark save where the light from the window caught his eye or a thread of gold in his dark tresses. Often he would wake with a jerk and a scream, desperately crashing out of some nightmare, and feel his cousin's arms about him, pulling him into a warm embrace. Healers, cousins, people he did not know came and went in a blur of movement and sound which he could not comprehend but still Fingon remained. For months he could not speak, spending whole days staring at the ceiling of his room or at the tree branches that swayed in the wind outside his window, and still Fingon remained.

He healed in time. Flesh grew back on his skeletal frame, words came back to his damaged mind. He learned to walk again, stumbling as he held Fingon's arm; he learned to write and fight with his left hand. Still nightmares remained (remain to this day, and probably to his death.)

One day he found himself sitting on his bed after a long, stumbling walk on the shores of Lake Mithrim, breathing hard, limbs aching, exhausted and almost ready to weep with pain and frustration, and fear of a future as the maimed, impotent king of a people on the brink of kinslaying. Fingon found him that way, bent over and his head resting on his one hand. He wrapped an arm around his cousin's waist; Maedhros did not object. When Fingon drew him close he did not say a word, nor move. When Fingon tilted his face up and kissed him he did not breathe. Then his hand tangled in Fingon's hair and he gripped him hard, pressing against him. They broke for air and sat breathing hard, staring at each other; then they kissed again. Then Fingon bent to kiss his neck, arms wound tight around his waist, pushing him backwards so that they both rested on the bed.

The thought that it might be wrong flitted through Maedhros' mind, but then he clenched his fist behind Fingon's back, in defiance of the Valar or so as to take hold of this fragment of pleasure and bliss in Arda marred.

Now they lie side by side, sleeping, in Beleriand the harsh and beautiful. Oblivious, not knowing that when winter comes next fire will come with it, a tide of death to break the leaguer. For now they sleep and have each other. Besides them the stream murmurs sweetly as it flows, and above them trees sway in the wind. Birds sing, unconcerned.

 


End file.
